


What Remains

by Nativeinvader



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativeinvader/pseuds/Nativeinvader
Summary: Summary: In which the nefarious Dr. Poison reflects on the death of her … ally.





	What Remains

What Remains

Summary: In which the nefarious Dr. Poison reflects on the death of her … ally.

Since the age of six, Isabel Maru has not been afraid of death, because she learned then that death was not the worst thing. It was never the worst thing.

She new she could die in the course of this war – Erich’s war, for despite her involvement she can’t ever think of it as hers. 

She just did not think it would be like this.

She recognizes the woman before her as the one who danced with Erich. She had thought little of her then, except as an annoyance, but now, she has even more reason to hate her.

She killed him.

She killed him.

She killed him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had created that gas to make him as impossibly strong as he always seemed to her. A lesser man would have been torn apart by the raw power of what was in those capsules, which is why they couldn’t use it on their soldiers, but Erich could withstand the rigors of her chemicals and emerged unharmed. The strength she unlocked in him was supposed to protect him, and herself by extension, protect their alliance, and their dark purposes.

They were so close to victory …

And now, it’s all fallen apart.

Because of her.

Isabel does not understand what she is, this wonder of a woman before her. 

But she hates her.

For Isabel Maru, death is not difficult to face, and hating is not difficult to do.

Other emotions and situations, however, have proven more challenging…

She should never have allowed it. She should never have allowed their relationship to become … personal. Intimate. She should never have allowed herself to be possessed by him.

Yes, it was a strange thing, to be his. She did not expect it would be like …

She had seen, in her academic and scientific careers, a few other women who were inclined, as she was, to pursue interests outside of marriage and children. It had given her hope, years ago, that the world might have a place, however small, for women like her, women who sought knowledge, women who wanted to change the world, to shake the foundations of the scientific community. But she had seen each and every one of these women, few as they were, fall by the wayside as soon as they engaged in that most insipid of activities, colloquially referred to as “falling in love.” One by one, their studies were abandoned, their already meager careers subsumed by the roles of wife and mother. Yet none of the men she encountered had to give up their dreams of making scientific discoveries to become husbands and fathers. It was absurd, unfair, but none of these women seemed to mind, and none of them seemed to mourn their wasted potential. Everything about them seemed to come second to their possession by a man.

She had though it fortunate, then, that she had been disfigured, because it meant she would never have to give up her pursuit of chemistry to be possessed by a man.  
But then Erich had … possessed her. And it was not like what happened to the other women.

Well, of course it wasn’t. He had not needed her to be a bed warmer, he had needed her to be a scientist to help him win this war. He had needed her to do great and horrible things. But he did not suddenly seem to think less of her because she had succumbed to his advances, as she had observed in other such situations. He still treated her as a colleague, and ally, an equal even. He was manipulative, yes, but it had been that way before, and they had both understood and accepted it. During the day, they went on much the same way as they had before, often still addressing each other by their titles, even when they were alone.

During the night, it was another matter entirely.

She could not quite understand what had made her succumb. She had always thought that, if there was pleasure to be had in life, it was of the dry, impersonal sort she found working in her lab, or of the cold, cruel sort of watching men die from the poisons she created. 

She had considered more … sensual sorts of pleasure to be beneath her.

But Erich had been … persistent. It had been very frustrating in the beginning. He had started so slowly, so carefully insinuating himself into her lab, into her space, until she grew used to his presence. And then it was his hand on her shoulder, just for a moment, or brushing her cheek, or a dozen other small, subtle gestures that begin to inspire … responses … ones that she found it increasingly hard to ignore. 

She remembered once, when she had been so frustrated, he had assured her of her brilliance and her ability to persevere. It was something, she had to admit, to have someone believe in her so completely, even if there was an element of manipulation to that belief. Then, as she was turned away from him, he had had put his arms around her from behind, squeezed her waist gently, as if to punctuate his words, and …

She should have moved away. 

Instead, she leaned against him and closed her eyes.

She had understood that he liked having this power over her. He enjoyed unsettling her and relished the subtle little ways she succumbed to his touch.   
But she did not imagine when he saw her unmasked that things would go any further than that.

He had shown her how wrong she was. The pleasure of his touch went from subtle and unnerving to raw and overwhelming. It flooded all her senses as he claimed her utterly and completely, as he kissed her breathless and made her forget that she was only supposed to be Doctor Poison, scarred and ugly and cold and bitter and cruel.

He never asked her what happened to her face. She supposed that was part of the reason why she eventually told him. But he did not seem to find her disfigurement to be any impediment to desiring her, and to making admit she desired him as well.

Tell me what you want, he would demand, in their most intimate moments. Tell me. Tell me, Isabel.

I want you. I want you. I want you, Erich. Querida. Querida. Querida.

She had resisted, at first, the idea of literally sharing his bed through the night. After … after, when she was warm and trembling in his arms, she would hardly take the time to catch her breath before slipping off to her own rooms. I need proper rest, if I’m to continue to my work, she would mutter, and he would let her go without much trouble.

The problem was, when she got to her bed, sleep would not come. 

She tossed and turned for a few nights, unwilling to admit the truth to herself, but eventually, she showed back up in his rooms.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

To his credit, he didn’t gloat. He didn’t even look smug. He simply made room for her as she slipped back into his bed, and she could not help but curl into him, because he was safe, and he was warm, and she slept better than she had in a long time.

Even so, on the eve of what was to be a German victory, she found herself irritated with Erich. She did not want to be at this … ball, dance, whatever it was, but he had insisted she put in an appearance. She did not always mind being among others if she could inspire fear, but this was the sort of place where she would be gawked at and whispered about with derision rather than terrified awe, a place where the women were only present to be weak and beautiful, and she was neither. She made eye contact with Erich, silently asking if she could leave, feeling her anger flare when shook his head slightly and went back to talking to someone else.

Make an effort, he had told her, and she knew it was an order. He had said it gently, almost pleadingly but still, it had rankled. 

She did not expect anyone to attempt to engage her in conversation, much less a young man. She is prepared to coldly ignore him despite Erich’s wishes, but something he says, about fire…

Someone else said something like that to her, long ago, and it makes her stop, makes her listen, makes her feel as if someone is this world other than Erich could possibly understand her…

But the soldier is easily distracted, as men are, and when she turns to see what has captured her attention...

She sees Erich dancing with a woman.

A feeling coils in the pit of her stomach then, something black and petty, and she hates that Erich has inspired it. She hates this gathering, and the solider, and all the other insipid people here, but most of all, she hates men, and their fickleness, and their arrogance, and their machinations. So she leaves.

She does not get far before someone grabs her arm. She barely has time to register it’s him.

“Who was that man you were talking to?”

She scowls at Erich and shrugs him off. “I have no idea. One of your loyal soldiers I assume…”

“You shouldn’t have been talking with him.”

She seethes. “You’re the one that forced me to come here,” she hisses. “You do not get to dictate who I carry on a conversation with!”

He grabs her again, pulls her to him. “Yes I do.”

“I’m surprised you noticed,” she snaps. “I would have thought you were too busy dancing with that woman.”

He laughs and lets go of her. “It’s not my fault you refuse to dance, Isabel.”

She feels her face grow warm. “That’s – that’s not what I meant!”

He laughs again. “Of course it is, you jealous little shrew.”

It’s too much, to be mocked by him, of all people. She won’t stand for it.

So she slaps him.

She would have done it again, except he grabs her hand, pushes her back, pins her against the wall. She struggles futilely for a moment, just as angry as he is, but nowhere near as strong. After a moment, she stills. He puts his hand on her throat, not squeezing, but letting her know that he is in control, that he could hurt her if he wanted to.

He could hurt her.

But he won’t. 

His thumb sweeps the side of her neck, and she watches the anger drain from his face.

“You’re mine, you know that?” He says it softly, almost as if it’s an afterthought.

“Prove it.”

He pulls her into his arms. She tries to hold herself stiff, because she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t let him conquer her completely, but then his mouth is on her neck, finding that perfect, perfect spot, and she moans and presses herself into him, needing to be close, needing to be surrounded by his warmth, his scent. She has been so wary of touch for such as long time, but he has made her crave it.

Why would she ever want to dance with him, out there? Why would she ever want something so pleasurable and private as their touch to exposed, in any form, to the vulgarity of public scrutiny?

They go quickly to his rooms.

She did not know then, that it would be the last night she would spend with him. So foolish, so stupid, to indulge in such sentiment, but she had done it anyway.  
Mi querida, Erich.

The woman before her has impossible strength, impossible beauty. Isabel can imagine how this woman sees her: a vile insect scuttling on the ground beneath her feet.

Her mask is ripped away from her face by some unseen force, and the woman lifts a vehicle above her head, the contempt plain on her face, prepared to crush her with it…

And then she closes her eyes, this … demi-goddess, or whatever she is.

When she opens them, Isabel recognizes the pity.

How she loathes pity. Hatred, disgust, contempt … all of those are better than pity. How she hates being looked at like that.

Erich never looked at her with pity, when her mask was off. Neither did he look at her with contempt, or loathing, or disgust…

He looked at her like … like …

No one will ever look at her that way again. It is this, more than the loss of the war, of her work, more than the prospect of death, that causes her to shed a tear.  
When she understands she is being spared for some inexplicable reason, she runs. She runs until she collapses, and then things get … hazy. She is most likely in shock, and the next thing she remembers, she is in an abandoned, crumbling building, clutching a tattered blanket to herself that she found somewhere, thinking it is best to get some sleep and then contemplate her next move. 

She can forget about it all … Erich, and the woman, and the war, and everything else. She is good at forgetting, by now, about times when she had hope. She needs rest, she needs sleep. So she turns on instinct, to curl into the warmth of …

No one. 

Because Erich is dead. He is gone. There is nothing, nothing of him that remains. There will be no one now, to encourage her or respect her or desire her or hold her close, and the stupid blind instinct that made her seek his warmth and comfort even though she knows he is gone makes her so, so angry. Why couldn’t he have left her alone? Why did he have to touch her, hold her, kiss her, make love to her? She hates him for the weakness he has inspired in her, for all those insipid, unwelcome feelings and desires he stirred within her.

She hates him. 

She hates him.

She hates him. 

But even Doctor Poison can only focus on hate and anger for so long, before other emotions creep in...

In the dark, in the ruin, she begins to cry in earnest, sobbing as she has not done since she was a child. She cries because the war is lost, she cries because her dark dreams are dashed, but most of all, she cries because, although Erich is gone, she cannot lie to herself any longer: there is something that remains of him, within her, and she does not know what to do.


End file.
